


Open at the Close

by allthegoodnamesaretakendammit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Albus Dumbledore has a romantic soul and a strategic mind, Harry Potter is just a beautiful mess, I don’t know if this will make you feel better but Harry is technically over the age of consent, M/M, Mutual Pining, a reckoning of the interpersonal conflicts never fully resolved by the novels, a revisionist history of sixth year, and a reflection on the cruelties of time, and it's very in-character?, grab a handkerchief, it just really wanted to be written, sorry I guess?, this is rated M because there’s no sex but christ would you look at the pairing, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit/pseuds/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit
Summary: Dumbledore teaches Harry Occlumency instead of Snape. It doesn't change much, except for the fact that it changes everything.





	Open at the Close

 

"You must understand, Harry," Dumbledore says, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them. “This is all a year late and a prelude to stickier issues, besides. Once we have completed your training, there is much I would like to share with you on the matter of Lord Voldemort and how he may be defeated. I, perhaps unwisely, have allowed my concerns to postpone this matter.”

“Concerns?” Harry asks, shifting in the creaky guest chair opposite the Headmaster’s desk.

"I suspected, for a time, that the two of us meeting weekly in private would tempt Lord Voldemort. That he might try to possess you in order to assassinate me, or at least incapacitate me. To circumvent that, I thought to ask Professor Snape to teach you Occlumency last year--"

And with that, Harry spirals into a nightmare where he has to be alone with Snape regularly, for months, with him stalking and sneering inside of Harry's brain.

Dumbledore chuckles at the look on Harry's face and says, "Yes, I thought so, too." Then he gazes out at the magnificent white clouds passing by the tower window and continues, "But I'm not sure that it would have significantly reduced the risks in any way. After all, Voldemort may have discovered the lessons and blacklisted Professor Snape, or your and Professor Snape's _personal differences,_ shall we say, may have created an impossible learning environment." He turns away from the window to face Harry again, saying, "Security was an excuse, I think, for not wanting to be vulnerable with you--for not wanting to sour our relationship with such a grueling task as learning Occlumency, for fear of finding things in your mind that I am unworthy of."

Harry swallows and prompts, "Such as?"

"I must confess, Harry--I do not think your faith in me as a Headmaster or as a strategist is misplaced. But I fear that, even after the revelations of last year, you may hold affection or an ideal image of me that I have done precious little to deserve."

Harry doesn't have much to say to that, so he answers, "I guess we'll find out."

 

*

 

They meet the week after that for their very first session. Harry pushes through the oaken double-doors and immediately senses a difference in the room. It takes him a moment, but then he puts his finger on it, concluding, "All of the paintings are empty."

Dumbledore emerges from behind one of the bookshelves, holding a thick brown tome and explaining, "I've asked all of the former Headmistresses and Headmasters to find somewhere else to be at this time every week. They could use a little sightseeing, in any case."

They find their seats across from one another in the overstuffed armchairs by the unlit fireplace and they quickly get down to business. The next two or three hours are spent covering the basics: the vulnerabilities that a Legilimens can exploit in a relaxed wizard’s mind, or an emotional one, or even through simple eye contact. "Wait," Harry frowns, several memories returning to him at once. "You've used it on me! In second year, after Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party. Or other times, for no real reason at all. It felt like getting Sorted into Gryffindor all over again, except it happened every other Tuesday. We’d look at each other across the Great Hall and I'd feel like you were reading my mind or something!"

"Or something," Dumbledore says, sitting back in his chair and looking like he's expecting Harry to explode a little. Harry just frowns some more and waits for Dumbledore to continue. "Legilimency bears only a passing resemblance to the act of reading. It plunges the user into sense memories and visceral recollections, often whatever is present at the uppermost level of the target's mind. As such, reading isn't involved so much as hearing, seeing, tasting, and, most poignantly, _feeling._ The emotions foundational to each memory are often experienced by the user secondhand, even though those emotions can be difficult to name."

Harry chews that over and says, "So when you used Legilimency on me... you wanted to know what I was feeling?"

"No," Dumbledore says gently. Then he hands Harry a brown leather-bound book entitled  _The Next Step: Finding Your Post-Hogwarts Career,_ but when Harry flips it open, the title page reveals it to be the _Guide to Advanced Occlumency_ by Maxwell Barnett. “I would like for you to finish the first five chapters by next week. It should offer you the bare minimum to at least understand what is occurring when I attempt enter your mind in our next session.”

Harry must look downtrodden at the prospect of extra reading and mental invasion, because Dumbledore notes, "With mastery, you will also be able to resist the effects of Veritaserum."

Harry perks right up. “I must have forgotten to mention,” Dumbledore says, smiling. Then he stands and walks Harry to the door, and as the Headmaster reaches to open the door for him, there is the flash of a thin, blackened wrist between the end of Dumbledore’s sleeve and the beginning of his white glove. Knowing that Dumbledore’s just going to deflect if he asks him about it again, Harry pretends for both their sakes that he hadn’t seen it, heading down the spiral staircase and calling out, “Have a nice evening, Professor.”

“I believe I will, thank you.” And the door closes behind him with a sound like a stone rolling into place.

 

*

 

It's tedious, is the thing. Over the coming weeks, he tends to leave Dumbledore's office with the beginnings of a headache and a persistent sense of awkwardness about the sheer number of unfortunate, mundane details that Dumbledore now knows about his life. Like the fact that he thinks Dobby's eyes look like tennis balls and that Snape's greasy, permanently wet-looking hair had originally put him in mind of a mermaid or a naiad. Like the fact that hunger and sadness are deeply entwined sensations for Harry, almost impossible to untangle from one another. Like the fact that he wanks infrequently and feels insecure about it because everyone else in his dorm seems to do it all the bloody time. Like the fact that Harry still has nightmares about Vernon's face turning puce and being locked into his cupboard, and the rest of the dream is just him huddled in the dark--sitting there silently for as long as it takes for him to wake up. Although, to look on the bright side: who's to say Dumbledore didn't know all of this stuff before?

 

*

 

It’s unthinkable that Dumbledore could ever learn the _one thing_ \--out of all the stupefyingly embarrassing things that he’s bound to discover in Harry’s mind--that Harry truly couldn’t handle him knowing. If he’s learned anything from the dry, clinical writing in the _Guide to Advanced Occlumency_ , it’s that fixating will only increase the likelihood of it. So he doesn’t think about it.

In fact, he’s so busy not thinking about it that he hardly even minds when Dumbledore rifles through his memories and they relive, together, the moment where he realized that Malfoy was actually rather fetching in his Yule Ball robes. In all truth, that is so very far from the worst of it.

There are orders of magnitude to shame, after all.

 

*

 

Their 12th session goes differently.

They sit facing one another, with only the Headmaster’s desk between them. Harry has his eyes closed, fortifying himself for the next bombardment. He breathes slowly, listening to the thunder and lightning rolling and rumbling right outside the tower, the accompanying susurrus of rain. When he finally feels like he has his mind in order, he opens his eyes.

Across the gleaming desk, their eyes meet and--

Dumbledore enters his mind abruptly, each time a little more forceful than the last. There is the usual flurry of surface thoughts, laid bare before them: the saltiness of the kippers Harry had eaten for breakfast, the nagging feeling that he’d left something important out of his last Charms essay, and so on. It’s more intense than Harry expected and he’s only able to throw it off by looking away from the Headmaster, and he finds himself staring at the thinned herd of silver instruments spinning on a side table. He breathes through the guilt at seeing that there are only seven left and turns back to Dumbledore, who calmly notes, “You’re making progress, Harry. It’s getting more difficult to delve deeply even on the second and third pass. Breathe. Focus. Stay as empty as you can for as long as you can.”

Harry nods. And then Dumbledore is plunging into his head again and the colors and sensations are washing over him, clusters of memory that--according to his textbook--aren’t random, but have no real pattern to them to Harry’s eye. Rather, it feels like he's just randomly reliving that time he'd gotten shirty with Aunt Petunia when he was eight over whether or not saying that a magician performed at school counted as saying the _M_ -word. There’s his dream of riding on the back of an enormous Hedwig, clutching at her snowy feathers and trying to hang on as she glided on golden air currents under a full moon. There’s the vivid recollection of traversing Tom Riddle's school memories and being suddenly confronted with a young, auburn, stern Dumbledore. How utterly delectable Harry had thought him, how Harry had yearned for Dumbledore's disapproval too, if that's the face he was going to make.

They resurface.

Harry promptly slaps his hand over his eyes and says, "Don't look at me."

"Harry," Dumbledore admonishes, sounding despairing and amused at his melodrama.

"Don't look!" Harry moans, slumping in his seat and feeling himself die on the inside. The room is silent but for the storm outside and Fawkes chirruping in sleep, napping upright on his perch.

“Harry,” Dumbledore begins once more.

“ _Nooo,_ ” Harry groans again, completely unwilling to hear a word of it.

Dumbledore coughs, a sound which suspiciously resembles laughter. “Under the circumstances, I’d say we should call it a day.”

Harry pops right out of his seat, exclaiming, “Yes! Wonderful, thank you.” His neck is burning and his skin is absolutely crawling in embarrassment as he gathers up his bag and jogs for the door, physically _needing_ to be as removed from this as possible. If Dumbledore has any parting words, Harry doesn’t hear them as he runs away just as far and as fast as he can.

 

*

 

One week later, Harry manages to drag himself up the spiral staircase with moments to spare, feet dragging in lingering mortification. He shoves open the oak doors, hating everything but mostly just himself. There is no possible way for today to end well. Because, baseline, he’s going to have to look at that face and acknowledge that Dumbledore _knows_ , or at least he’s starting to--

The thought is cut off at the sight of the man himself, regal as ever, seated behind his desk and watching Harry over the tops of his glasses.

Ignoring every instinct in his body, Harry shuffles up to the enormous claw-footed desk and sinks down in the chair in front of it. “Good afternoon, Harry,” Dumbledore says pleasantly.

“Afternoon, Professor,” Harry dutifully returns, dropping his schoolbag on the floor and loosening his red and gold-striped tie a little to help him breathe.

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Harry answers honestly. “But that’s what we’re here for.”

"So it is."

What follows are their toughest tests yet. Harry is charged with blocking Dumbledore during minutes of endless eye contact with nothing to distract either of them. No relief. Just the endless bombardment of a foreign mind, those piercing blue eyes aimed right at him. Fifteen minutes in, Harry is literally sweating with effort but he's holding his own, as far as he can tell. Keeping his mind well-swept and uncluttered. Breathing. Focusing.

It’s not about suppressing emotions; Harry and his enormous textbook can agree on that much. It’s about accepting those feelings and letting them dissipate on their own accord, so that no one else can access them. Harry doesn’t hit too many roadblocks on that front, since he’s always been pretty good at acknowledging what he’s feeling. With one glaring exception.

Harry blinks and meets Dumbledore’s eyes again at just the wrong moment, and--

The deluge. A host of emotions and impressions and a thousand little moments that Harry had dammed up inside of himself instead accepting and releasing like he’d done with all the rest. It feels like the two of them spend a year reliving it all: Harry being awestruck by Dumbledore's power, his canniness, his kindness. A sense of devotion rising within him; a faith in Dumbledore that’s beyond whatever he has felt for any other human being before. Gratitude, desire, flashes of curiosity and frustration at never fully understanding a man who has always effortlessly understood him.

The torturous dreams of last year and how he’d wake up covered in cold sweat, then pull out the Marauder’s Map just to watch Dumbledore pace in his office, reassured to find a kindred insomniatic spirit. And then waking up from dreams that were entirely worse; dreams where he finds genuine, mutual, utterly fulfilling physical pleasure with a man over seven times his age. The afternoon when he’d dug up his old Chocolate Frog card and done the math just to make sure he was beating himself up for it the appropriate amount.

And more, so much more: slowly feeling his admiration blossom into something no one on the planet could ever be comfortable with, hating himself for lusting after an old man, and, worse than that, falling in love with him. Telling himself repeatedly that he’s just confused about what he’s feeling. Rare moments of honesty when he’s flying high above the Quidditch pitch and it’s just him and the open sky, the bare handful of moments where he can admit to himself that his love for Dumbledore isn’t confusion; it’s pure clarity. Naming every cold, hard fact that makes his attraction both mad and impossible, listing them in his head mantra-like after he’s woken from the dreams that he shouldn’t be having. Blaming the Dursleys for raising him wrong and not training him to recognize a surrogate father when one was dangled right in front of his nose. Staring through a telescope in Astronomy class, thinking to himself that Dumbledore is so distant and ancient, he might as well be the man on the moon. Being terrified that Voldemort would catch wind of this and how he might use it against Harry; and then not worrying about that at all because who the bloody hell would believe him? Harry can scarcely believe it himself, how he aches for a man who will only ever see him as a child. How being furious and upset with Dumbledore for a whole year didn't lessen the fact that Harry loved him--how, instead, it made it real.

Miraculously, inevitably, the onslaught ends. Harry collapses against the desk, sweat pooling at the back of his neck and feeling just as wrecked as he must look. The only sounds are the whirring of silver instruments and the breeze rattling the windows.

Harry feels every inch the charity case and the hopeless wretch that the _Daily Prophet_ had once purported him to be. But honestly, there just aren’t words for what he feels like in that moment, head bowed and resting on his shaking arms, mind broken wide open. Shame filling him to the absolute brim, turning his limbs into lead in spite of the convulsive trembling that’s wringing him out between each breath.

And then Dumbledore pats his head. Not in a patronizing way, necessarily, but gently. Like he wants to run his fingers through Harry's hair but he doesn't dare.

Harry dredges up enough energy to move despite the fog of utter misery. Heart breaking and stitching itself back together and beating hard enough to obliterate the rest of him, Harry looks up. There is a part of him that is honestly relieved to see that the sky is still blue through the window, that Hogwarts hasn’t crumbled around them. Dumbledore’s hand falls away and he looks at Harry with bright eyes, ineffable things brewing behind them.

Cheeks deeply red and breath still coming hard, Harry stares right back at him. Finally, Dumbledore confesses, "I wish dearly that I could have known you when I was your age." Harry wearily waits for him to continue, still not sure of what to hope for here. "I could have done with your influence."

What can Harry do but laugh? Tiredly, but candidly, knuckling his eyes to keep the tears back. There is a sudden flapping of wings and Harry turns his head just in time to see Fawkes swoop out of the window and into the autumn sky, sunlight catching his wings in a flash of gold. Merlin, what a beautiful bird.

When he turns back, Dumbledore is still watching him, his facial expression somewhere between serene and resigned. "At the same time, I'm glad. You see, Harry, it's always with those to whom I'm closest that I make my gravest mistakes. And considering the series of failures I've offered you, I hate to think of the horrors I'd put you through if loved you any more than I already do." Harry lurches forward, sobbing into his own hands, engulfed by too many emotions to count.

And he actually does card his fingers through Harry’s hair, then. Long, cool fingers trailing over his scalp like they can mend his mind from the outside if they are only careful enough.

“How,” Harry says, quite literally choking on the word. He takes big, gulping breaths until he can force out the words, “How can you possibly--after what you just _saw--_ ”

“Harry Potter, I know you too well to allow such things to cloud my judgement now. I know what marks you out as the exceptional individual that you are.”

“And what’s that?” Harry croaks, swiping away hot, stinging tears.

“Your soul,” Dumbledore answers quietly. “You are scarred and much troubled, but you are--the most _whole_ person I have ever known. The one most willing to speak the truth. The one most ready to give.”

It's only the complete redundancy that allows him to say it. “I love you,” Harry tells him, voice shaking all to hell. “I love you so much.”

Maybe it’s because they’ve spent so many hours inhabiting the same mind and maybe it’s because the next step is so very obvious, but when Dumbledore scoots his chair back with a wooden screech against the stone floor, Harry knows exactly what he’s supposed to do. He stands and walks around the enormous desk, coming to a stop next to the Headmaster’s stiff-backed chair. Dumbledore is already swishing his wand in one elegant movement to double the width of seat and to cushion the arms of the chair.

Harry sits slowly, barely an inch of empty space between the two of them as he settles in next to Dumbledore. And then there’s no space between them at all as Dumbledore’s arms wrap themselves around him, his cheek resting against on top of Harry’s head. He sneaks his arms under Dumbledore’s own and hugs him right back, chest fit to burst. It’s all terribly warm and Harry adores every part of it, even if the angle is ungainly. Feeling strongly that they’ll be sitting like this for a while, Harry tries get more comfortable by resting his thighs over Dumbledore’s, letting his legs hang off the chair. If some part of Harry was worried that he was being too forward, then he needn’t have because Dumbledore only hauls him closer. Ancient as he is, Dumbledore seems to still have plenty of strength in his arms when he brings them nearly chest to chest. It must be the constant wand-waving, Harry thinks a tad deliriously as he tucks his teary face into that incredible white beard.

Dumbledore’s splendid turquoise robes are smooth under Harry’s palms and he idly traces the pattern on them, the white seven-pointed stars that litter the soft material. It occurs to Harry that the two of them have never really shared a hug before. Perhaps that’s why this one is lasting so long.

The chest against his heaves with one long exhale and Harry finds himself thoughtlessly confessing, “If you weren’t so old, we could really be something, you know?”

“It may reassure you to know that we already are, by definition, ‘something.’ Nevertheless… perhaps if you weren’t so unbelievably young, we really could.” Harry gives an incredulous laugh at that and Dumbledore pulls back from him to watch as Harry scrubs away the last few tears clinging to his lashes.

It amazes Harry to think that they could be smiling at each other after everything that’s just passed between them, but Merlin, they are. “You mean that?” Harry asks him.

“Heart and soul.”

Harry rides the rush of honesty that’s taken hold of them both, the momentum compelling him to ask, “What… happened to your hand?”

“I wanted to apologize,” Dumbledore answers, looking exhausted. “I was consumed by the need to absolve myself--or, failing that, to explain myself--to those who can no longer hold me accountable, and I took a foolish risk. I shall pay for it with my--”

Harry hugs him again, squeezing him tighter and tighter, not wanting to hear anymore. Silence reigns. When Harry feels like he can breathe again, he moves back far enough to slowly reach out and take Dumbledore’s gloved hand between his own. His fingers brush Dumbledore’s withered black wrist and the white cotton is downy on his palms as he asks, “Can I--can I help?”

“Oh Harry,” Dumbledore, wistful and despairing and a hundred other things that Harry doesn’t have words for. And that just about answers his question, doesn’t it.

They sit there, staring down at their joined hands and listening to the wind whistling around the tower, beneath the sound of their own soft breathing. “It is good that I am a wizard,” Dumbledore observes. “Because it has become immensely difficult to button things up.”

He’s—he’s just so _Dumbledore_ and Harry is helpless against it, his eyes misting up again at the thought that this man is bound to leave this world, to never say silly things at just the right time, to never welcome the next sprawling generation of Weasleys at the Start-of-Term Feast, to never turn a hundred and sixty-nine years old—which is precisely when Harry will reach age seventy and nobody will care about what a pair of old men get up to. It’s always been a pipe dream, obviously, but to have it foreclosed so completely… And now Harry feels greedy for wanting to take the years that Dumbledore won’t even get to have. That’s what makes him say, apropos of nothing, “I know it’s wrong of me. Because you’ve given me so much, but I just want more from you. I’ll always--I’ll _always_ want more from you--”

Harry is trying to warn him, but Dumbledore cuts him off succinctly, saying, “With all that I ask of you, that more than seems fair.”

But Harry isn’t done yet. He shakes his head and tells him, “You gave a damn about me. Even when it wasn’t fashionable or particularly rewarding--”

“It has always been rewarding,” Dumbledore contends. “Infinitely so.”

Harry gives a wet chuckle and says, “Try telling the Dursleys that.”

“I should never have left you with them. I see that clearly now,” Dumbledore states, suddenly severe. “Yes, it was the strongest protection I could offer you. Yes, it was the most logical place to let you live and grow. But Harry, there is no part of you which deserved the welcome you received in that house.”

Harry bites his lip, and there are things writhing inside him as he answers, “You don’t know that.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore says, those bright blue eyes boring into his, willing him to understand. “I do.” Harry can’t believe that he’s crying again, but he replays those words in his mind and, through the fresh wave of tears, judges himself less for it. Dumbledore rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders and says, “I’m sorry. I am so terribly, terribly sorry.”  

Harry just weaves his fingers into the long silvery hair on the nape of Dumbledore’s neck, urging him downward until Dumbledore tips his forehead against his own. He feels remarkably light as a few final tears slip down his cheeks and their foreheads simply rest against one another, heedless of their glasses clacking together.

“I forgive you,” Harry says, meaning it more than he can say. But he can tell that Dumbledore understands everything in it, _needed_ every part of it, because his eyes fall shut and he suddenly looks as if he’s either going to burst into tears too or as if his faith in humanity has just been restored. Possibly both.

Harry closes his eyes, too, and basks in the peace he feels deep within himself and all around him. It’s all on the table now; the total sum of himself, present and accounted for. He feels a bit like a beam of sunlight and at least for now, he can accept that he’s probably going to flunk Potions again this year and that Hedwig probably doesn’t love him quite as much as she loves eating field-mice and that Dumbledore isn’t long for this world and that, in all likelihood, Harry isn’t either and it’s _okay_ and it’s all headed somewhere beautiful—he has utter faith in that, if only for the moment. Out of that near-cosmic sense of certainty, Harry can admit to himself that he’d really like to snog his Headmaster right about now. It’s a tad superficial and definitely ill-advised, but Harry wants it—he’s not sure he’s ever wanted something so bad in his _life._

He takes a moment to turn over in his head every reason—sensible or otherwise—why it can’t and shouldn’t happen. But if they’ve just spilled their hearts out to one another and they’re all going to die fathomlessly soon anyway, then what do all of those protests really count for? And he's a Gryffindor, dammit, and if that doesn't give him license to at least _try_ to snog his Headmaster, then what on Earth does?

Harry opens his eyes to find Dumbledore already looking down at him, seeming something approaching calm again. A smile works its way across Harry’s face as he leans back to mop up the nearly-dry tear tracks on his face with his tie. Then he slides his own glasses off and sets them on the desk with a clack. Dumbledore seems to recognize the gesture for what is, by the intense look he gives Harry, as if he’s searching for any hint of doubt. Whatever he sees there on Harry’s face, it has him leaning down with an expression Harry’s never seen him wear before; full of intent, but happy. Expectant.

There is something truly elegant in the way Dumbledore twines his hand in Harry’s hair and pulls him softly back into Dumbledore’s personal space. He follows with bated breath, his zen beginning to ebb a little and raw anticipation filling its space in his gut. Their faces are so close now that Harry can see his own reflection blink at him on the mirrored lenses of Dumbledore’s glasses.

Surrounded by what may well be a hundred empty portrait frames and the stones of a school that has persisted for a millennia and will surely outlive them all, Harry closes that last centimeter. His eyes slip shut again at the feeling of their lips touching gently, so gently that he feels like he could just fall apart.

Harry leans in for another, closer kiss and it’s profoundly simple when you think about what their bodies are literally doing together, but it makes Harry feel like every complicated thing in his life got sandwiched together and expressed in a single physical act, but like, in a _good_ way. It is a predictably whiskery kiss and Harry just has to relish that, the tickle of that snowy beard as Harry tilts his head and presses in for yet a third kiss, helpless to do anything but let his tongue dart out for a swipe at Dumbledore’s lower lip as he pulls away. Dumbledore tastes sweet and, endearingly, a bit lemony.

This time, it’s Dumbledore who ducks in for another kiss and Harry wraps his arms fully around his neck now, giving himself over to the sensation of it. It’s almost unbearably tender, really, the way Dumbledore’s fingers are still carding through his hair as their lips meet again and again like the tide coming in.

His lips are tingling with it now, and Dumbledore’s beard is a little scratchy against his cheeks, too. All of that is essential, but somehow secondary to the fact of kissing—how very important it is that he’s kissing Dumbledore, an act which is composed of those sensations. Occlumency will do this to you, sometimes, making you second-guess what an experience even is. Harry’s not hung up on it, though. He is simply filled with every feeling that he is offered, returning every kiss he can steal. It’s like simultaneously being on the verge of sleep and being fully awake for the first time in ages.

Their mouths finally ease away from each other, but they stay close, sharing each other’s air. Harry slots his nose against Dumbledore's long, crooked one. Still mesmerized by all of the wild things coursing through his brain and body, that simple contact is a grounding sensation when the rest of him is buzzing.

Dumbledore thumbs the sensitive spot behind Harry’s ear and quietly asks, “May I?” Harry nods and finally lets his eyes flutter open.

Dumbledore enters Harry’s mind, so very softly this time, and they experience it all over again, every feeling still sharp with recency: Harry’s anticipation, the sparkling soreness in his lips, such deep and abiding joy, feeling something soar inside of himself as Dumbledore kisses him back and kisses him back and kisses him back, and then the sheer sight they make--Harry’s head tilted back to accommodate that kiss coming down from on high, practically in Dumbledore’s lap--makes Harry’s stomach jump. There’s the little things, too, that he hadn’t realized at the time: the slight pink of Harry’s cheeks, from crying and kissing and stress. The noises made by their clothes rustling, their legs shifting, and the two of them finally pulling apart only to lean onto each other like they’re huddled against a storm.

As they buoy up and out of the memory, Harry is tempted to ask for access into Dumbledore’s mind, to witness the other side of that same impossible stretch of time. And he bites it back with a sudden, visceral understanding of Dumbledore’s initial hesitation about having these lessons in the first place: the fear of finding things in that man’s mind that he can’t possibly deserve. He rests his forehead against Dumbledore’s again, simply staring into those eyes as they peer so piercingly into him.

Reliving that kiss with Dumbledore was almost more vivid than the original experience itself, and his body is humming with it all over again. Harry forces himself to recount every detail of it a third time--to quite literally commit it to memory, to gather up every last scrap of pleasure he can get out of it.

Dumbledore is old and possibly dying if that weathered black hand is anything to go by, but Harry loves him, loves him in a bunch of different ways that are hard to hold his head in all at once, but Dumbledore _knows_ now, could probably configure them into meaningful constellations and name them. It is enough. It is enough because it has to be enough, for both their sakes.

By some grand design, he finds himself completely willing to accept the gift that is being here, now--knowing and being known. The evening wears on and on and Harry couldn’t say how long they sit there, wrapped up in each other in rapt silence.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m… sorry?


End file.
